 | Poems |  |
SAINT SYMPHORIEN.
(LED OUT TO MARTYRDOM: HIS MOTHER SPEAKING FROM THE WALL.)
Symphorien! Symphorien!
Look up! the heavens are parting wide.
He waits for thee—the Crucified.
The pain is short, the palm is near.
Look up! O God! he cannot hear,
Symphorien! Symphorien!
Where is my voice? my breath is gone:
Symphorien! my son, my son!
Ah—look!—his clear eyes turn to me,
His firm, sweet, smiling lips I see.
God will be good to thee and me,
Symphorien!
Look up! the heavens are parting wide.
He waits for thee—the Crucified.
The pain is short, the palm is near.
Look up! O God! he cannot hear,
Symphorien! Symphorien!
Where is my voice? my breath is gone:
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Ah—look!—his clear eyes turn to me,
His firm, sweet, smiling lips I see.
God will be good to thee and me,
Symphorien!
Dear Lord, how long I prayed for him,
With trembling tongue, and vision dim:
For baby hands about my breast,
For baby kisses on it pressed!
Thou heardest me:—this is the rest!
Symphorien! Symphorien!
My child! my boy! it is not much,
Only a sharp and sudden touch,
Think on the Master,—not on me:
Remember His long agony.
The lictors will be merciful,
The headsman's axe will not be dull,
Only one moment—then for thee
The raptures of eternity,
Symphorien!
With trembling tongue, and vision dim:
For baby hands about my breast,
For baby kisses on it pressed!
Thou heardest me:—this is the rest!
Symphorien! Symphorien!
My child! my boy! it is not much,
Only a sharp and sudden touch,
Think on the Master,—not on me:
Remember His long agony.
The lictors will be merciful,
The headsman's axe will not be dull,
Only one moment—then for thee
The raptures of eternity,
Symphorien!
My baby! oh, my baby boy!
A miracle of life and joy:
A rosy, careless, dimpled thing.
And now Dear Lord, be comforting!—
Martyr and saint. Let be! let be!
He must not know this agony.
Through my heart, too, the sword hath gone.
Be silent lest he hear me groan—
Symphorien! Symphorien!
One last long look: oh saint! my child.
My boy! my own!—He turned and smiled.
And now behind the crowd of spears,
The whirling dust,—he disappears.
Symphorien!
A miracle of life and joy:
A rosy, careless, dimpled thing.
And now Dear Lord, be comforting!—
Martyr and saint. Let be! let be!
He must not know this agony.
Through my heart, too, the sword hath gone.
Be silent lest he hear me groan—
Symphorien! Symphorien!
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My boy! my own!—He turned and smiled.
And now behind the crowd of spears,
The whirling dust,—he disappears.
Symphorien!
Martyr and saint? You think I care?
Oh, fools and blind! I am his mother.
What! bless the Lord and turn to prayer?
He is my child—I have no other.
No hands to clasp, no lips to kiss.
Who talks to me of heaven's bliss?
Symphorien! Symphorien!
Come back! come back! Deny the Lord!
Traitor?—Who hissed that burning word?
I did not say it. God! be just
I did not keep him; I am dust.
The flesh rebels. I am his mother.
Thou didst not give me any other.
Thine only Son?—but I am human.
Art thou not God?—I am a woman.
Symphorien! Symphorien!
Come back!
Oh, fools and blind! I am his mother.
What! bless the Lord and turn to prayer?
He is my child—I have no other.
No hands to clasp, no lips to kiss.
Who talks to me of heaven's bliss?
Symphorien! Symphorien!
Come back! come back! Deny the Lord!
Traitor?—Who hissed that burning word?
I did not say it. God! be just
I did not keep him; I am dust.
The flesh rebels. I am his mother.
Thou didst not give me any other.
Thine only Son?—but I am human.
Art thou not God?—I am a woman.
Symphorien! Symphorien!
Come back!
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